


You Never Really Knew

by tridecaphilia



Series: Sometimes Family Are The Ones You Choose [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anchors, Gen, Pack Dynamics, Psychic Abilities, Team as Family, background ships possible but basically gen, isaac centric, psychic nosebleeds because why not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tridecaphilia/pseuds/tridecaphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Motel California," Isaac has been having strange symptoms. Nightmares, headaches, fainting, and nausea, all accompanied by things that shouldn't happen. When he finally gives in and asks Deaton what's happening, he finds out--just in time for Deucalion to find out too, and try to take advantage of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts with a nosebleed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some minor edits to this, since I'm coming back to finish it. It's pretty much just wording and fixing typos. A couple details have changed. But if you read the old chapter one, you know essentially everything that happens in the new one.

The first thing Isaac saw was blood on the pillow.

To a normal teenager, this probably would have meant an inconvenient but largely unobjectionable nosebleed. And to Isaac’s credit, he didn’t panic as he might once have done. But still, werewolves didn’t get nosebleeds. It made no sense to him, which is probably why instead of pinching his nose like he learned to as a child he grabbed a handful of tissues and scrubbed at his face with them like he expected it to stop on his own.

Fortunately, Mrs. McCall was a nurse, and even more fortunately she was a mother as well. So after a few minutes, she came in to see why Isaac hadn’t come downstairs for breakfast. When she saw the pile of bloody tissues and the blood on Isaac's face, she pointed to the bed. “Sit down,” she ordered, calm but firm.

Isaac sat, although his eyes were wide with the panic he wasn’t letting through.

“You ever gotten a nosebleed before?” she asked, grabbing the box of tissues he had been so ineffectively mopping his face with.

Isaac shrugged. “Not like—I mean, I got h—in fights. But not since turning, I mean…”

“It should heal, right.” Mrs. McCall didn’t stop to worry about this detail. Instead she grabbed several tissues and handed them to Isaac. “Hold that against the bleed, and pinch your nose here.” She moved his free hand to the bridge of his nose so he’d know where she meant. “Keep your head tilted forward, not back—I would bet you can still get sick if blood runs down your throat. I’ll be back in ten minutes—I’m going to call the school and let them know you’ll be late. If it’s not better in ten minutes, is there some kind of werewolf doctor I can call?”

Isaac nodded. His voice was stuffy from pinching his nose. “Deaton. Scott’s boss.”

She raised her eyebrows but didn’t look all that surprised. After all the weirdness she'd dealt with in the past few months, it would take more than one more bit to shake her calm. “Okay, I’ll call him if this doesn’t stop. Be back in ten minutes.”

Isaac waited. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe too hard in case that made it worse. Since Derek had turned him he hadn’t been afraid of injury or sickness, barring the Alpha pack, but this—this wasn’t _normal._ It should have healed already. It shouldn’t have happened at all.

He looked at the clock, trying to figure out how much time had passed. But when he looked at the clock, the numbers flickered. He saw 7:35 just before it swept through a full quarter hour and landed at 7:50. And then again, to 11:25. And again to 2:40, and then once more to 4:14.

Isaac turned away from the clock firmly—if he was seeing things, it was probably just some aftereffect of the wolfsbane, and not worth mentioning.

Downstairs, he could hear Mrs. McCall talking to the principal. “Yes. Yes, Scott will be late too. Of course I’ll bring them as soon as we’re sure it’s nothing serious. Yes. Thank you.” There was the soft click of her hanging up the phone and then the clatter of plates and splashing of juice as she served up a hot breakfast to herself and Scott. From the sound of Scott’s eating and Melissa’s comment about leaving some for the rest of them, he was just as hungry as ever.

He heard footsteps and saw Mrs. McCall coming into the room. For some reason her figure was blurry, and had it really been ten minutes already? He glanced back at the clock again, but this time it said only 7:38, and thankfully didn't hit fast-forward when he looked. He looked back at the door, sure she wouldn't be there; it wasn't nearly time yet. Sure enough, she wasn’t there.

Isaac groaned. He thought about lying back, but Mrs. McCall had said tilting his head back would make blood run down his throat and he didn’t need to add sickness to this list of not-supposed-to-happen weirdness.

Finally, he heard footsteps—real ones this time; he checked the clock—and Mrs. McCall came up with Scott right behind her.

“Let me see,” Mrs. McCall said. Isaac slowly took his hands away from his nose and tilted his head back.

“Well, the good news is it seems to have stopped,” she said. “Breathe through your nose a couple times—gently. How does it feel?”

He tried, and winced. “Like wet tissue,” he said.

She nodded. “It'll do that for a while longer. Maybe less, if the healing kicks in. But the good news is the bleeding’s stopped. If it starts again call me--Scott has my work number--but if you avoid sneezing and breathe through your mouth for the day it should be fine.”

“How do you avoid sneezing?” Scott asked.

She raised her eyebrows at him and without warning pushed her finger right under her son’s nose. “Like that,” she said. “It suppresses the reflex and also…” She pushed a little harder and Scott stumbled back, looking surprised. “It’s very hard to resist moving when someone’s pushing that spot.” She winked and dropped her hand.

Scott’s eyes were wide with respect and awe. Clearly, he hadn't known she could do that.

Mrs. McCall turned back to Isaac. “I would suggest you talk to someone who knows more than I do about werewolves, but you seem to be fine,” she said.

Isaac nodded and hopped up. “Thanks, Mrs. McCall,” he said.

She nodded and gestured to the door. “Come on down and eat. I’ll drive you boys to school. And don’t worry about the sheets, I’ll deal with them.”

Isaac waited until both the McCalls had started downstairs to let his smile fade. He touched his nose one more time to be sure there was no more blood coming out—but no, it was fine. It didn’t even feel like it was about to explode into Niagara Falls again when he started breathing through his nose again. And when he looked around, there were no more shadows, no more images that went away when he blinked.

He didn’t really want to just let it go. But even less so did he want to be the crying baby who ran to Deaton over a nosebleed. The images could have been caused by blood loss, anyway. That was a thing that happened, right? And more than that… he didn't want to say anything. It felt like a bad idea. Secrecy had been his friend for so long, and whatever this was seemed like a bad idea. The instinct to keep the secret, to lie if he had to, was so strong it was like an itch under his skin. And anyway, it was just a nosebleed.

When they were finally in class at school, Isaac tried to ignore Scott watching him like he might spontaneously combust. He tried to ignore the worry lining his… friend? Alpha?... lining Scott’s muscles, and tried not to listen to Scott explaining the morning’s events to Stiles in hushed tones.

Something was off, though. Oddly, it was Coach Finstock who first alerted him to it. He called Isaac to his desk after a class where Isaac had felt relatively normal considering everything.

“You feeling okay, Lahey?” he asked.

Isaac frowned. “Yeah, why?”

Finstock shrugged. “I don’t know, you just seem a little—off today. You were less active than usual. I don't think I've seen you so quiet all year.”

Something told him this wasn’t about Isaac’s mental health. Specifically, the flickering images of Finstock’s coach uniform overtop of his teaching clothes. This image, at least, made sense—just a subconscious thing. Nothing weird or unexplainable about it, just instinct meshed with observation meshed with a mind already predisposed to weirdness by a poor night's sleep and an impossible nosebleed. Isaac told himself that and smiled, deciding to put the coach's real fears to rest. “Don’t worry, Coach. I promise not to let my grades fall. I’ll still be on the team.”

“That’s not what this is about…” he began, then trailed off when Isaac’s smirk only grew. “You’re sure?” he asked.

Isaac nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine, just didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Good.” Finstock sighed in relief. “I’d hate to have to bench you. You’re a good player.” He nodded to the door. “Go on, get to your next class.”

Isaac nodded, pulling his backpack higher on his shoulder, and headed for the door. Just before he reached it, he saw someone coming through and stepped aside.

Ms. Morell stepped through the door a full second after Isaac moved. Isaac frowned. He hadn't heard Ms. Morrell, and she wasn't the person he'd seen coming through the door. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure it was a person; it hadn't been a clear image like the others, just a person-shaped shadow.

Whatever it had been, it made him pay more attention to Ms. Morell, and Isaac realized for the first time what was different about her. It was something that had nagged at him since he’d been turned.

This close, he should have smelled a lot of things. Her breakfast, her laundry detergent, her shampoo—and her own personal scent, the scent of skin cells being shed into the air. Instead he smelled… a shampoo or soap he couldn’t identify, and nothing else.

Ms. Morell raised her eyebrows at him. “Something wrong?” she asked.

Too late he realized he was staring. “No, sorry.” And head spinning with thoughts and speculations, he headed out before she could ask any more questions.

He tried, harder than he’d ever tried as a human even with the threat of his dad hanging over him, to pay attention in his other classes. To not let his mind wander. And he thought he managed it—until French class, when once again the teacher (Ms. Morell this time, and given what had happened earlier that just worried him even more) pulled him aside afterward.

“Is everything all right, Isaac?” she asked. “You seem worried."

Had he been that obvious? He'd tried not to show how weirded out he was by her lack of scent. It was distracting him even now as he tried to answer her question. “Yeah,” he said when his mouth had caught up with his brain again. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

She nodded. “Good. Keep it that way, all right? There are a lot of people counting on you.”

Isaac tried not to let her see how unsettled that comment made him as he left for lunch.

Nothing happened through the afternoon. No nosebleeds, no images of things that weren’t there, no teachers pulling him aside for private talks about how he needed to pay more attention. Everything was normal—until, against Scott’s hissed advice (which Isaac pretended not to hear), he went to lacrosse practice.

Finstock offered to let Isaac sit out, although the words made him look like he’d swallowed a lemon; but Isaac turned it down. The events of the morning had solved themselves, after all, and although the images were weird they weren't causing any real problems.

If he’d had a different human life, he might have realized what was coming. Moreover, if he’d still been human, it would have occurred to him as a possibility. Instead, he heard the faint buzzing in his ears and saw the hazy spot forming in his line of vision and thought nothing of it. Even when the sudden spike of pain shot through his temple he thought it was just stress. He told himself that so well that he didn't realize anything was seriously wrong until the images started again.

Isaac was training in defense, watching the offender charge with the ball in possession. He was coming straight at Isaac, the twist to his shoulders and angle of his body saying he was going to swerve right—but at the moment when he expected the player to swerve, Isaac saw instead another image—the same as the clock and Mrs. McCall—of the boy turning left instead. On instinct, Isaac followed the image instead of the guy’s shoulders, and tackled him to the ground when he was least prepared for it.

There was a roar of sound, and a pain like a railroad spike being driven through each temple, and for a second he thought Finstock was yelling or someone was blowing another wolfsbane-filled whistle—and then the roar overwhelmed him and the pain built until his skull felt like it would shatter and the hazy spot that had faded for that image spread to black out his entire field of vision and finally he blacked out.

He woke up in the nurse’s office this time, and the first thing he saw was Scott. “Isaac,” Scott began.

Isaac ignored him, sitting up. “What happened?”

“You passed out,” Scott said. “Right after you tackled a guy. Isaac, are you okay?”

Ignoring the buzzing that was fainter but not gone entirely, Isaac sat up. “Fine,” he said. “How long was I out?”

“About a half hour. I wanted to take you home, but Finstock said something about liabilities.” He smiled crookedly. “So we stuck you in here. I called my mom, she said if you were out much longer she’d leave work and come get us.”

“Oh.” Isaac swung his legs off the cot and waited for the room to finish steadying itself. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly. “You—your mom doesn’t have to come. I’m fine.”

Scott nodded. “Good.”

The silence hung for a few moments before Scott said, “Maybe you should talk to Deaton.”

“I’m fine,” Isaac said instantly. He knew it was a pretty unconvincing argument. But the same instinct that had told him not to say anything the first time said again that it wasn’t safe to let any more people know than already did. “Have you talked to Derek about this morning?”

Scott shook his head. “Did you want me to?”

“No. Actually—I don’t want any more people to know.” He looked up at Scott, and the expression he wore was one Scott had last seen when they first met, the day Isaac was arrested for his father’s murder. “Please don’t tell anyone else.”

Scott agreed, reluctantly. But reluctant was okay. Scott still wouldn't break his promise and sell Isaac out.

“Promise me something, though,” he said. “Promise if anything like this happens again, you’ll go to Deaton.”

“Anything like what?” Isaac asked. “Look, it’s not like I’ve been fainting all day. I had a nosebleed, which, yeah, weird, but then I passed out. It’s coincidence.”

“Two is a coincidence,” Scott insisted. “Three is a pattern. If a third time happens, promise you’ll go to Deaton.”

Isaac sighed. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Not until you promise.”

He didn’t want to. But Scott was, well. Scott. Whatever else that meant, it meant he was important enough to Isaac for him to agree. “I promise.”

~*~

The first order Deucalion gave them in this new place was to push Isaac Lahey. None of them had understood, and Kali kept fighting him on that. They were an Alpha pack, after all. They were all equals, weren’t they?

But only Ethan knew why Isaac was so important. Until now he'd only gotten hints, and the hints had all been that Deucalion had been wrong. Until today.

“I hope you have good news for me,” the blind Alpha said when Ethan was close.

Ethan nodded, realized that Deucalion couldn’t see it, and said aloud, “I think so.”

“What is it, then?”

“The beta—Isaac Lahey. He’s been showing signs. He smelled like blood this morning—his own blood. Too much, though, like he didn't heal right.”

“And what else?”

“He passed out in lacrosse practice.” Ethan frowned. “Is this really good news?”

“Not for him, no.” Deucalion’s smile was thin and cruel and tremendously self-satisfied. “But potentially very much so for us.”


	2. Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once is an incident, twice is a coincidence, three is a pattern.

Stiles was in the kitchen the next morning, talking to Scott and Mrs. McCall in a voice low enough to go unheard by anyone but a werewolf. It was probably rude to listen in… but a decade of being unwanted had left him with a degree of self-preservation high enough to listen in anyway.

“Look, it’s just a precaution,” Stiles was saying. “Just tell him to stay and he will.”

“Then why did you even bring that?” Scott asked. His voice was strained around the edges in a way Isaac couldn’t identify the cause of.

“Just in case. Come on, Mrs. McCall, back me up.”

Mrs. McCall had other ideas. “Under absolutely no circumstances are you going to lock anyone up in my house,” she informed him.

Scott must have been paying more attention to sounds upstairs than Isaac had thought, because when Isaac’s pulse and breathing quickened in response to that suggestion Scott interrupted, “Hang on, Mom. Isaac’s awake.”

Isaac heard Scott pushing back his chair and dove out of bed, pulling on clothes and trying to look like he wasn’t thinking of running before they found a place to lock him up. He just managed to button his fly when Scott knocked on the door.

“Isaac?” Scott called. “Open up, I need to talk to you.”

Isaac hesitated a moment. Scott knocked again. “I know you’re in there. Come on, open up. No one’s locking you up, Isaac.”

He hated that those words—those words coming from _Scott_ —were what he needed to hear. He hated that the second he’d heard them he calmed down. But he crossed to the door and opened it anyway. “Okay.”

Scott smiled, and it was that bright beacon of hope that had swayed Isaac’s loyalty. It worked now to calm his nerves. He really, truly… well, almost trusted Scott. Close enough, at least, to follow him downstairs to where Stiles and Mrs. McCall were waiting.

Stiles had the good grace to look embarrassed, although when he shoved his backpack behind him it only succeeded in releasing a cloud of a dry, bitter scent that Isaac had only smelled a few times—mostly in Deaton’s office. Mountain ash. Stiles actually wanted to lock Isaac up so he couldn’t leave.

Panic threatened to take over, his mind trying to start the old familiar track of _What did I do why are they angry how can I fix this._ But Isaac shoved all of those thoughts down as best he could, refusing to acknowledge or react to the scent. He breathed through his mouth to try not to smell it, even. Instead he addressed his question to Mrs. McCall. “What’s going on?”

She at least met his eyes, her voice steady and firm without an ounce of cruelty. “I called the school. You’re home sick today.”

“What?” He looked between her and Scott. “I’m not sick,” he said. “It was just—a fluke.”

“Once is an incident, twice is a coincidence, three is a pattern,” Stiles said. “But what if the third time you wolf out?”

Isaac tried not to snap at Stiles. He couldn’t understand what he was going. But he was _angry._ “So you thought, let’s lock him up? Let’s surround the house in mountain ash?”

“Actually just your room.”

Isaac’s eyes widened, but he passed it off as anger. “You’re not serious,” he said, turning to Scott.

“No! Stiles,” he shot the human in question a look, “got a little overenthusiastic. We’re not going to lock you up, Isaac, we’re just trying to keep everyone safe. Including— _especially_ you.”

“Why is everyone making a big deal out of this? It was one day, two weird things. That’s it.”

“We’re making a big deal out of it because you were targeted before,” Mrs. McCall said. “And because we care about you.”

The words hit hard, but the smell of mountain ash was still there and _why did Scott let him bring that what did I do_ “Fine,” he said. “I won’t go to school.” He shot Stiles a look. “But I’m not staying here all day, either.”

“That’s fine,” Mrs. McCall said. “Just be home in time for dinner.”

Home. He didn’t need—he didn’t want to hear that right now. “Right,” he said, and without another word left the house.

Behind him he could hear Stiles’s verbal eyeroll, which dissolved into he and Scott bickering over how they should have dealt with it. Mrs. McCall stepped in to tell both of them to be quiet, and five seconds later Isaac’s phone rang.

He checked the caller ID, not surprised to see it was Scott. “I’m not coming back,” he said when he picked up.

“No, I know.” It wasn’t Scott on the other end—it was his mother. “I just wanted to tell you—be careful out there. If anything happens, either more of the same or something with the Alpha pack, you call Scott and come right back here, okay?”

There was a strange choking feeling in his throat. He wasn’t used to someone caring about him, not the way Mrs. McCall and Scott did. It cut through his remaining anger and he realized that he’d left without eating anything and without taking his wallet.

He wasn’t ready to go back yet, though. Not when Stiles was still there—and he was. So he kept walking, further into town.

With his anger gone, he noticed that the buzzing at the edge of his hearing was back from yesterday at lacrosse. This time, though, it didn’t seem like just a buzz—there were words hiding under the white noise. He shook his head to clear it and when the noise faded, kept walking.

He was downtown now, nearing the shops. Maybe it was the press of people and the increase in real noise in his ears, but he was starting to get a headache. He grimaced but kept walking.

He didn’t realize it was time for school already until an adult he recognized as one of his former neighbors stopped him. “Isaac?” he asked, frowning. “It is Isaac, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

_He was so much better behaved before his father died, that man kept him in line, now he’s practically a delinquent, such a shame, such a nice child—_

Isaac flinched back. “No, I’m, um. I have a—a doctor’s appointment. I was headed there now, actually. I—have to go.” And he fled, trying not to run, feeling the accusations and the praise of his dead father boring into his back. He was imagining it. Just a fluke.

He shouldn’t have run, he realized too late. He should have stayed home, if he had to go anywhere at all. He shouldn’t have gone out where there would be strangers, who didn’t know him, looking at him, judging him—he should have stayed out of sight, invisible.

No more adults pulled him aside, but he could feel their judgments, could _hear_ their accusations even though they didn’t say anything. It was the buzzing in his ears, floating up at random moments to form coherent words and phrases that no one had said.

The itch under his skin was back too, tugging at his mind. _Not safe should be out of sight don’t tell don’t tell lie lie lie—_ and it built up with his growing headache and the buzzing in his ears, the panic in his mind—he was getting close to running and damn the consequences—

He ducked into a store, not caring what it was (as it turned out, it was a thrift store). There weren’t as many people in here as there were outside. And perversely ignoring his desire to pretend nothing was happening, the buzzing in his ears quieted as well, at the same time that his headache spiked.

The pain was so sharp his vision clouded for a moment, and he headed for the back wall— _the dressing rooms,_ although he wasn’t really thinking clearly enough to process that that was where he was going—to hide. Something was happening, something above and beyond the buzzing in his ears, which was now getting louder and sorting itself into distinct words and voices; above and beyond the splitting pain in his head, that felt like it would actually crack his skull into a hundred pieces. The ground was shaking under his feet, the buzzing was overridden by screaming as people called “EARTHQUAKE!” and—

_It’s the kid, the beta, the one Deucalion’s so interested in. He looks in bad shape, wonder if Deucalion would mind if I just—_

Kali, he realized, it was Kali, the Alpha, the one who was so broken up about Ennis’s death that she would kill Derek if he didn’t kill one of his own, and she was outside but she was coming in now, and she was saying—

_Well, he wouldn’t be too fussed if I just lopped off an ear or two, right—_

And someone else—

_Shit, what’s the Lahey kid doing here, is he okay, why is Kali after him, he’s a beta, they’re after Derek—_

Someone he didn’t know, or maybe he did but not well, but his voice was sharp like acid in Isaac’s ears and he stumbled half-blind into the dressing room and locked the door and curled up on the seat with his hands over his ears and—

_Something’s wrong—can’t let the Alphas kill him, he’s a kid, he’s an innocent—_

A knock at the door.

Isaac’s head jerked up. Why didn’t he hear that coming?

“Isaac!” That voice. That was the same as the voice calling him innocent, but this time it didn’t burn his ears, didn’t feel like acid. The voice, this time, cut through the buzzing and screaming in his ears, cut through Kali and strange passersby who Isaac had barely registered until they vanished. And now he recognized it, now that the acid was stripped from it.

“Mr. Argent?” Isaac asked, very softly.

“Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”

Isaac looked down at his hands and thought about the question. The buzzing was gone, but his head still hurt—and it was getting worse, as if it had liked the buzzing and it was penalizing Isaac for getting rid of it.

“Isaac, are you all right?”

Isaac shook his head, realizing that Mr. Argent couldn’t see but not caring. He put his hands over his ears again. The itch had turned into a twisting sensation in his gut and a burning in his muscles, _have to move have to do something can’t stand still_ , and he was shaking.

“Isaac!”

“No!” he said. It came out somewhere between a yell and a sob.

Somewhere overhead, a light bulb exploded with the crack of shattering glass.

There was a brief pause, and then Mr. Argent started talking again, but there was a different tone to his voice now. It was low and calm, and there was a steadiness to it in total defiance of Isaac’s rising panic. “Isaac, listen to me. You need to calm down. You can’t afford to hurt someone, and I can’t afford to let you. All right? So for both our sakes, calm down.”

That wasn’t the best way to convince Isaac, and he shuddered and curled in tighter on himself. The buzzing was back, rising in his ears.

_Kid doesn’t know what’s happening can he imprint if I’m not his Alpha how can he have these powers if wolfsbane—_

The door creaked, and from the position of Mr. Argent’s feet when Isaac glanced at the door he had leaned back against it. “Isaac, you need to listen to me. Whatever else you’re sensing, you need to ignore it. Focus on my voice and block out the other things.”

He tried. He did. But the itch under his skin _screamed_ at that, _no no no don’t trust don’t listen_ , and a _crack_ of wood and a _thunk_ as it hit the floor told him the door to the room beside his had broken.

“Isaac, I know it’s hard. I know you’re scared. Believe me, people usually are. You’ve got to be brave, though. I’ve seen people kill themselves out of fear before they get this far. People who think they’re possessed, or haunted. But you’re not, Isaac. You’re not damaged or broken, do you understand that? This is scary and strange, but it’s not bad. You’re safe. Just focus on me and ignore everything else.”

He almost did. But—“Are you going to kill me?”

“No. you’re an innocent. This isn’t your fault.” A pause. “Besides, I’m done hunting.”

Isaac slowly uncurled from his fetal position on the bench, putting his feet back on the floor. Mr. Argent kept talking. “I can’t tell you exactly what will happen here, because it’s different for everyone. But I can tell you…”

Isaac listened, and the pain in his head faded. The itch under his skin settled down like a tiger curling up for a nap, and Isaac stood and went to the door. “I’m coming out,” he said, and waited for Mr. Argent to step aside before opening the door.

“So what am I?” Isaac asked him when they were standing face-to-face.

Mr. Argent’s mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Well, I can’t be a hundred percent sure. But at a guess? You’re psychic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So at this point I feel it's fair to warn you all, I've had a fairly extensive plan for this series since Motel California and thus I have no intention of honoring any canon that happened after that that Josses what I'm writing. I may add details that work for the story, but a whole lot of what's coming isn't in canon and directly contradicts canon and because I developed my plan first I don't plan to change that.
> 
> I am also going to add that while there may be pairings, I plan for the series as a whole to be relatively gen, with pairings remaining in the background.


	3. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. I've had it half-written for ages and only now got around to finishing it. One of the scenes I've been really wanting to write is in the next chapter, so hopefully that will take less time. Thanks for being patient with me!

Mr. Argent drove Isaac home, and it said something about the day he’d had that that wasn’t even close to the weirdest part so far—and, Christ, it wasn’t even noon yet. The day had plenty of time to get weirder still. The radio was off, and while Argent respected Isaac’s request not to talk about what had happened, he didn’t stop talking entirely. The same tone, calm and low. The words seemed random, or maybe it was that the sound and rhythm of the words were more important than their meaning. Isaac wanted to tell him to stop that too, but part of him liked hearing him talk. Probably the strange itch under his skin, which he’d taken as his own instincts before. After Mr. Argent’s comments it seemed like that itch probably had a different source. It had settled down now, at least, which unfortunately left his conscious mind free to dwell on Mr. Argent’s comments.

_You’re psychic._

Argent had only said it once, _thank god,_ but it kept echoing in Isaac’s head which was almost as bad. It was all— _how not possible makes no sense how why how why how why me—_

Too much.

Isaac got out at Scott’s house—his house, for now—and thanked Mr. Argent for the ride.

“Anyone else here?”

“No,” Isaac said. “It’s fine,” he added, because Argent looked about ready to offer to stay and part of him _wanted_ him to. “I’ll call Scott.”

Mr. Argent nodded. “All right.”

Isaac thought that would be the end of it, but apparently not. “Call Deaton too,” Argent said. “Ask to see him today. He’ll be able to tell you if I’m right.”

Isaac would have protested if Mr. Argent hadn’t taken that chance to drive away.

As soon as the car rounded the corner out of sight, the itch started again. Isaac shoved his hands in his pockets, fists clenched so he wouldn’t sprout claws and rip the jeans apart. He gritted his teeth, forcing the itch to the back of his mind and waiting for it to die down. When it finally did, he went back into the house.

Mrs. McCall was still there, but she had her jacket on over her scrubs and was scribbling a note when she saw Isaac. “Oh, you’re back.” She didn’t smile; she grabbed her bag. He could smell her stress; the itch threatened again and he clenched his fists in his pockets to fight it. It hadn’t been this bad before Argent had said _that._

“I’m running late,” Mrs. McCall said. “There’s microwave pizza in the freezer, bread and lunch meat—you know where they are. Scott’s at school, I’ll be at work, you can call either of us if you need to. I’ll see you later tonight.”

He barely had time to stutter an “okay” before she was out the door, leaving him alone in the house again.

He stood by the door for several long moments before he realized that he was scenting the house to be sure that Stiles hadn’t talked them into leaving any traps. But the scent of wolfsbane was fast-fading and the rest of the scents were normal. The itch was even dying down, slowly, into something he could ignore.

_I’ll call Scott._

_Call Deaton too._

Who was Argent to get involved in his life anyway? He didn’t need to call Deaton. He didn’t even really need to call _Scott_.

He’d text, at least.

Reluctantly, he sent off a text to Scott— _Happened again, I’m fine, home now, don’t worry—_ and headed up to his room. Of course, this being Scott, he hadn’t even made it upstairs before his phone beeped to alert him to Scott’s reply.

_Coming home now._

Isaac groaned aloud. He _didn’t_ want to explain to Scott what was happening. He wasn’t even sure what was happening himself, wasn’t sure he believed Argent’s explanation; and Scott was worried enough as it was.

He probably had five minutes—max—before Scott got home. That wasn’t much time.

_Call Deaton too._

_Promise if it happens again, you’ll call Deaton._

He pressed his forearms to his face and groaned. Why was everyone so worried? For that matter, why was _he_ so worried?

If he wanted to explain anything to Deaton before Scott was there, he needed to call _now._ He dialed Deaton, not sure if he wanted the man to pick up or not. If he was with a client or treating a pet or—

“Beacon Hills Veterinary Clinic, can I help you?”

Isaac had never been so relieved to hear the cryptic old man’s voice. “Dr. Deaton, it’s Isaac—Lahey.”

“Isaac,” Deaton said. “Hold on a moment.” There was a brief pause during which Isaac could hear Deaton’s soft steps and his voice as he told a client he had to take the call, then more steps as he retreated into another room. “What can I do for you?”

Isaac swallowed. “Something’s been happening. Not a werewolf thing, or not a normal one. I—I need your help.”

“What’s been happening, Isaac?” Deaton seemed surprisingly patient.

“It’s…” O _ut with it._ “Is there such a thing as psychics?”

Deaton was silent a long moment. “You should come in,” he said. “I close for an hour for lunch at 1:00. Bring Scott.”

Isaac let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His shoulders relaxed, and he realized with some surprise that even the itch under his skin hadn’t risen the way it had before when he’d tried to say anything about what was happening. “Thank you,” he said.

“1:00,” Deaton repeated. “Until then, stay inside and _stay calm._ ”

He hung up. Isaac slid his phone into his pocket, slowly. Calm. Calm seemed like a pipe dream right now.

_This is scary and strange, but it’s not bad. You’re safe._

Great. Now his inner voice sounded like Argent.

But Argent had so far been the only one to calm down this… whatever. (What did you call the voice of your psychic powers, anyway? Derek talked about the wolf like a separate thing, and the itch sure seemed separate, but did it have a name? God, this was insane.) And Deaton—and Argent—had said to stay calm.

And though Isaac wouldn’t admit it if he could help it, he’d almost asked Argent to stay before.

He texted Allison. _What’s your dad’s cell number?_

He hoped she didn’t ask why. He couldn’t think of much that would be more awkward and embarrassing than explaining that.

Allison, of course, didn’t know what had been happening, so she wouldn’t be watching her phone and wouldn’t respond right away. He tried to keep from worrying while he waited for Scott to get home.

His nerves, of course, skyrocketed again when just a minute later he heard not one but two engines—one motorcycle and one Jeep—turn into the driveway. His heart stuttered and sped up. Why had Stiles come? Why had Scott let him come?

He made his way downstairs to meet them, stopping only briefly when his phone went off. Allison’s reply. _5558281046\. Why?_

He didn’t answer—and unless Allison asked him when he couldn’t avoid it, say if Scott was around, he would continue to not answer that question. Instead, before he could second-guess the decision or Scott could get concerned that he wasn’t downstairs yet, he texted the number she’d given him. _It’s Isaac. Appt w Deaton @ 1. Can u come?_

The door opened downstairs. “Isaac?” Scott called.

Time to see how much of this he could get away with not sharing, at least for the scant hour and a half until their appointment with Deaton.

“Right here,” Isaac said as he came down the stairs. He glanced at Stiles. “If you brought wolfsbane again, I will shove your whole backpack down your throat,” he said. His voice came out calmer than he’d expected, more steel than nerves.

“Whoa,” Stiles said, holding up his hands. “Easy there. Definitely no wolfsbane. I am here only in my official capacity as the guy who figures things out.”

Isaac resisted the urge to tell him Argent already beat him to that. Instead he turned back to Scott. “I called Deaton. He asked to see me—and for you to come—when he closes for lunch at 1:00.” He glanced at Stiles, taking no small amount of vindictive glee in saying, “He didn’t invite you, though.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Wow, I _so_ didn’t see that one coming. Doesn’t matter. I’m coming anyway.”

“The hell you are.”

Scott wisely chose to step in then, before the situation could escalate any further. “I’ll come,” he said. “Stiles, you should go back to school. My mom knows what’s happening, she’ll understand if I miss class for this. Your dad won’t.”

Stiles shook his head. “Scott, I’m not going back to school _now._ ”

“You’re not coming,” Isaac said flatly. He looked at Scott. “Or I’m not going.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took that as his cue to leave the room and head for the kitchen to find food. He could hear Stiles and Scott arguing behind him, but fortunately Scott hadn’t asked who had texted him. He checked the message—sure enough, it was Argent’s reply.

_I’ll be there._

Isaac let out a slow breath. He decided not to reply to the text; he didn’t need to invite questions about who he was texting and have to admit to it, at least not until they were at Deaton’s and he couldn’t avoid it. Instead he shoved the phone deep into his pocket and opened the freezer, digging for the pizzas Mrs. McCall had mentioned.

He’d just unwrapped one and popped it in the microwave when he heard the front door close a little harder than necessary. Footsteps told him Scott had come to the kitchen after him. “Stiles still didn’t want to go, then?” he asked.

“No,” Scott said with a half-chuckle. “He really, _really_ didn’t. But I talked him into it.”

There was silence while the pizza cooked. Then Scott asked, “What happened this time?”

“Headache,” Isaac said shortly. The timer went off, and he popped open the microwave and grabbed the pizza from it.

“What else?”

Isaac frowned at him. He definitely hadn’t mentioned the shadows or the voices to Scott, so what was he talking about?

Scott frowned right back. “Nothing else?”

“No,” Isaac said shortly. _Nothing I want to tell you about, anyway._ He sighed. Scott would find out when they went to see Deaton. “I’ll tell you later, okay?”

Scott nodded, although he still looked hurt. But he seemed to accept that Isaac wouldn’t talk about it just then. He grabbed the other pizza out of the box and set it in to microwave.

Isaac checked the clock. 11:53. He had just over an hour before he had to explain, and until then he was going to keep right on hoping that Argent was wrong.


	4. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isaac finds out what's going on and wishes he hadn't.

Isaac managed to avoid mentioning Argent to Scott mainly by claiming he was still hungry, or thirsty, or needed to find something, until it was time to leave for the clinic. And although he felt ridiculous riding behind Scott on his motorcycle, it did a good job at making conversation totally implausible, even with werewolf hearing.

They reached the clinic at five of one, and Isaac cleared his throat as he pulled off his helmet. “So,” he said awkwardly. “There’s something I should tell you.”

Scott frowned and turned his head like he was listening to something. He didn’t seem to hear Isaac. “Is that Argent’s car?” he asked.

“You know what Argent’s car sounds like?” Isaac wanted to take back the words as soon as he’d asked them. Of course Scott knew what Argent’s car sounded like. All that time sneaking around with Allison had to teach him something.

“Is that him?”

“Yeah…” Isaac shifted his weight from foot to foot. “About that. I sort of asked him to come.”

Scott looked at him, frowning. “You did? Why?”

_Because he makes the itch go away. Because he knows what’s going on, or has more of a clue than anyone else does._

“Because he’s the one who found me and helped me when my head hurt so bad I couldn’t see,” Isaac said. There. Partial honesty. “He drove me home, too.” That might’ve been too much.

Argent’s van pulled into the clinic parking lot then, so Scott didn’t have a chance to ask further questions. He did shoot Isaac a look that promised a great many of them when they got home.

“Mr. Argent,” Scott said when the man stepped down out of the van. “Thanks for helping Isaac earlier.”

Argent nodded, but raised an eyebrow at Isaac like he knew he hadn’t exactly volunteered that information to Scott. “Not a problem.” To Isaac he said, “Ready?”

Isaac nodded.

Deaton was at the desk when they came in, with no clients in sight. “Good timing,” he said with a smile when he saw them. “Scott, would you put up the ‘Closed for Lunch’ sign?” While Scott did that, Deaton led Isaac and Argent into the back room.

“Should I assume you’re the one who told Isaac about psychics?” he asked Argent.

Argent nodded. “I didn’t think werewolves could be psychics, though,” he admitted.

“Well, they can,” Deaton said. “It’s rare, but then, psychics in general are rare, as are werewolves.”

“If Deucalion finds out—”

“If your theory is correct, and Deucalion finds out, then we have a very big problem,” Deaton cut him off. “But first, we need to find out if you are right. And fortunately, there’s a simple enough way to test that.”

Scott came back at that moment, looking between them. Of course he would have heard everything they’d said. Freaking werewolf hearing.

“What theory?” Scott asked.

“Only matters if it’s right,” Isaac said. “So how do we test it?”

“Hold out your arm,” Deaton said. “I need to draw blood.”

“Why?” Isaac asked even as he complied.

Deaton slid a needle with a vial attached into the vein in Isaac’s elbow. “Because doing this to you directly would be far too risky.”

When the vial was full of Isaac’s blood, Deaton removed the needle from his arm. The site stung for only a couple seconds before it healed. Thank God for werewolf healing.

Deaton removed the needle from the vial and popped off the lid. He took a small bottle off the counter, unscrewed the top, and dropped the contents into the vial of Isaac’s blood.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, so quickly it might still not have happened, the blood in the vial swirled, shimmered, then settled back to normal.

Isaac’s temples pounded. Without thinking, he reached for Argent. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he stopped, but a moment later a hand wrapped around his wrist. The pain in his head subsided instantly.

“It seems it does matter,” Deaton told Isaac.

Isaac nodded shakily. “What would have happened if he’d been wrong? What is that, anyway?”

“Wolfsbane,” Deaton answered. “Highly concentrated. And if he’d been wrong, well… May I?” he asked Scott, who nodded and held out his arm.

This time, when Deaton dropped the wolfsbane into the vial, it took less than a second for Scott’s blood to froth and turn black.

“Psychics,” Deaton explained, “are awakened by a near-death experience, in the worst case; or by a controlled dose of wolfsbane, in the best case. When you went to the motel, and the darach poisoned your coach’s whistle, it acted as that dose of wolfsbane and awakened your abilities.”

He capped both vials of blood and dropped them into a biohazard container. Isaac wondered if he was going to throw them out with the regular old dirty needles; it seemed like there should be some stricter disposal protocol for werewolf blood.

Deaton, however, thoroughly distracted him from that question by pulling out another needle—this one attached to a syringe—and filling it partway with the same wolfsbane he’d dropped into the vials.

“What’s that for?” Isaac asked.

Deaton turned to him. “Psychic abilities,” he explained, “are delicate things. Right now, yours are in flux. The best thing for you is to feed them until they settle down.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Isaac said.

Argent was the one who took over, and why why _why_ did that make Isaac’s hackles go down? “Psychic abilities don’t pick a shape and stick with it right away,” he said. “When they first show up, they shift until they find a form that they—and you—like. Using them and taking more wolfsbane will increase their strength once they settle on a shape.”

“And what if I don’t want them to settle?” Isaac asked. “What if I want them to go away?” His hand twisted without his permission until it was holding Argent’s wrist.

“Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen,” Deaton said.

“So maybe I just let them settle down, then what?”

“Then,” Argent said, “you’re left with powers that are strong enough to give you a headache if you don’t use them but not strong enough to save your friends.”

“There’s got to be another way.” That was Scott, of course. Of all of the people there, he was the only one who would stick up for what Isaac wanted in the face of something like this.

“Isaac,” Deaton said, not replying to Scott, “once your abilities settle down, Deucalion will try to bring you into his pack—and kill you. If an Alpha kills their own beta, they take on that beta’s strength. If that beta is a psychic, no matter how strong or weak…” He let it hang.

Isaac swallowed hard. He didn’t want this, any of this. It was impossible, shouldn’t happen, _why me_. His head was spinning. The itch’s desire to grow and strengthen was fighting with his need to not be noticed, to run, to _hide._

“Isaac,” Argent said. His voice was soft but tense, strained.

Isaac looked at his hand and realized his claws were pressing into Argent’s skin, just shy of drawing blood. He yanked his hand back, forcing the claws to retract. “Sorry,” he said.

Argent looked at Deaton. “Can he—?”

“Yes,” Deaton said.

“I can _what?_ ”

He shouldn’t have asked.

“Imprint,” Deaton said.

“It’s a way of controlling your abilities until they settle down,” Argent added. “You hand off some of the control to someone else—in this case, me.”

Isaac stared between the two men. And then he started to laugh. It was all _way_ too ridiculous. Psychic powers and magic wolfsbane and headaches and psychic earthquakes and Argent holding the remote to turn the headaches and earthquakes off and his powers being “in flux” like they were one of those weird screen savers that morphed constantly. Way, way too much.

He stopped laughing pretty quickly when Argent put a hand on his shoulder and very softly said his name. The situation suddenly seemed more bearable and worse at the same time—more bearable because Argent _did_ hold the remote and he was there, but worse because it was real and _Argent_ held the remote.

“So what now?” he asked. He tried to pretend he wasn’t asking Argent, but he was, and he knew it. Judging by the look on Scott’s face—partly lost, partly annoyed, partly worried—Scott knew it too.

“Do you want the wolfsbane?” Argent asked. “It won’t hurt you. It’ll help your powers grow.”

“Magic steroids,” Isaac said, trying to make a joke out of it. It didn’t work. He sighed and held out his arm. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s do this, or whatever.”

He looked away, toward Argent, while Deaton injected him. Argent was right—it didn’t hurt. The pain of the needle went away after just a few seconds (seriously, God bless werewolf healing), and he felt… light. He hadn’t realized he was tense or getting a headache until suddenly both of those were gone.

He hopped down from the table. “So, is that it?” he asked.

“For now,” Deaton said.

Isaac refused to let that ominous message ruin the first good feeling he’d had since the motel. He waved cheerfully and left with Argent and Scott beside him.

~

From the back lot of the veterinary clinic, Kali watched the werewolves and the hunter leave.

Deucalion would want to know that his suspected psychic had been to see the vet. Deaton was the local druid; Deaton would have been able to confirm one way or another. Personally, Kali hoped Deucalion was wrong. There was only so much power the Demon Wolf could get before he decided he didn’t need the rest, and Kali enjoyed her fun too much to leave or be killed.

But if Deucalion _was_ right and the kid _was_ psychic… Kali wanted him for herself.

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to wait until I had more of this written, but I wanted to get it up before tonight's episode, so here you go. I have the next chapter started. Story and series titles are all from "Who's to Say" by Vanessa Carlton, because the series lyric is just such a perfect description of Scott's pack.


End file.
